House of Ashes
by CarryOnMyWaywardDaughters
Summary: Directly after Mary's death, John is dealing with what he saw and becoming a single parent. Deanna isn't talking, and Sam's a baby who needs his attention. Grief, suspense, and creepiness. Looking for answers, he finds less than he wanted and more than he bargained for. Sequel to Salt Water Ashes. GENDERSWAP AU always-a-girl!Dean and always-a-girl!Sam. Everyone else is the same.
1. Chapter 1

**Author's Notes**

Hello everyone, and welcome to this next installment of **Salt and Ashes**! If you're just starting out on this one, don't worry! While reading the last fic, **Salt Water Ashes** , first is best, it's not necessary to read this one. All you need to know is that this is a **Genderswap AU** , where Dean and Sam were born as girls, and that the POV will switch between **John** and **Bill Harvelle**. If you don't know who he is...go back and watch season 2.

Lastly, this fic is already finished, so you don't need to worry about me abandoning it. Why not post it all at once? Because this series is huge, and this gives me time to write and edit the next fics in the series.

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 **November 2, 1983**

Deanna was crying for her mom. John could hear her from the next room. Rubbing his eyes, he sat up in bed. Looking over at his wife, still fast asleep, he groaned silently to himself. He waited a moment to see if Deanna would go back to sleep. Squeezing his eyes shut and pinching the bridge of his nose, he felt Mary move beside him. He put a hand on her arm to keep her from getting up.

"I've got it, go back to sleep." He mumbled. Looking over at Mary, who smiled tiredly back at him, he brought her hand to his lips. Her skin was soft and smooth in his coarse hands. She hummed, closing her eyes. She was breathing evenly before John had his robe on.

The floorboards creaked under his weight, deafening in the hushed silence. No other sound, aside from Deanna calling for Mary. At least that meant Sammy hadn't woken up.

Deanna's door groaned as John slipped in. John tried not to laugh at his daughter. Wide eyes peeked over the edge of the blanket clutched up over her ears. In the soft illumination of her nightlight, shadows appeared to be monsters. John often wondered if the nightlight actually fed Deanna's imagination better than the dark. He walked slowly to the bed, sitting on its edge. John laid his hand on the thick quilt over Deanna's arm.

"What is it this time?" John asked patiently. Before Sammy came along, Deanna didn't wake up nearly as much as she did now. John suspected it was her way of adapting to the change, subconsciously trying to get more attention. It worked, simultaneously scaring Mary out of her wits whenever Deanna started yelling in the middle of the night. It was always typical kid stuff—there was something in her closet, under the bed. After the first few instances, it didn't alarm John to hear her calling out at night. It had taken Mary much longer to adjust.

Mary also changed after Sammy's birth. The first few months had been rough, on all of them, but her especially. Giving birth on the ten year anniversary of your parents' murder could do that to a woman. Suddenly every cry and scream was Defcon 1 for Mary Winchester. He'd had to stop Mary from barricading them all in their bedroom the first night Deanna said something was in her closet. John had never seen Mary so scared than the first few months of Sammy's life. She wouldn't talk to him about it, no matter how much he asked. He could understand being afraid of someone breaking in and hurting her family all over again. It didn't explain freaking out over non-existent monsters, but it explained enough. Somethings Mary had to keep for herself. He got that. He had his fair share of secrets, though he'd begun sharing those in an effort to let Mary know he'd be there when she was ready to talk. It had been a hard, rocky road, but they'd made it through finally.

Deanna shrunk deeper into her blankets. She whispered as if she were afraid of being heard. "Something's trying to get in the house!"

John frowned. Okay, give the kid points, that was a new one. She'd probably been woken up by something—a bird probably—hitting her window. The neighbors berries fermented this time of year, and birds smashing into windows were far too common. Their first month in this house- when Deanna was just over a year old-John laughed for a good twenty minutes when Mary told him tipsy birds were flying into their windows. It was kind of sad, but hilarious all the same.

Tipsy bird or not, John took her fear (if not the cause) seriously. He patted Deanna's arm soothingly. "Nothing is trying to get into the house, Princess." Deanna opened her mouth to protest but John shushed her gently. "Now, I'll tell you what. I'm gonna go downstairs and check all the windows and doors right now, just to be sure. How does that sound?"

Deanna latched onto his arm. "No, don't! It'll get you!"

"What'll get me?" John always tried—and failed— to get her to think about it logically. She was only four, but it seemed better than feeding her fears.

"The monster!"

John was glad Mary stayed in bed for this one. It had been weeks since Mary's last panic, and this definitely would break that streak.

Instead of insisting that monsters weren't real, he decided to play off a stronger belief of Deanna's. "You think I'd let a monster get me? Or you?"

Deanna frowned. "No…" She mumbled into her blankets.

John played his advantage. "That's right. Remember, anything that wants to get at you has to pick a fight with me first." He jostled her back and forth playfully. Stubbornly, she pouted, but couldn't stop herself from laughing. John tucked her back in, placing a kiss on her forehead.

As he stood to leave, Deanna lifted her head off the pillow. "Daddy?"

John stifled a sigh, yawning as a result. He stretched his arms over his head. "Yeah, peanut?"

"…could you make a sweep?"

John closed his eyes, trying not to get annoyed. 'Making a sweep' became a nightly ritual since Sammy was born. Every night, he and Mary would check Deanna's closet and under her bed for 'monsters'. Aside from a few aggressive dust bunnies making him sneeze, nothing was ever there. If Mary had remained calm the first few times instead of acting like something might actually be there, Deanna wouldn't need it. They'd fought about it—probably the first real, serious fight they'd ever had. (Aside from the carrots thing, but that was a whole 'nother story.)

He tousled her head. "Yeah, sure thing, kiddo." She was only four, after all.

Under the bed dust bunnies: check.

More clothes, dress-ups, and toys than you could shake a stick at in the closet: check.

Honestly, John would be impressed if something found enough room to hide in Deanna's closet.

He closed the closet doors firmly but quietly. He had two other girls sleeping in the house. John turned back to Deanna, spreading his hands wide. "See? No monsters."

"…And you're gonna check downstairs?" Deanna whispered. Drowsiness beat out fear; her eyes were beginning to droop.

John nodded. Crossing back to the bed, he brushed her hair out of her face, kissing her forehead again. "Of course. Night pumpkin."

"G'night daddy."

"Love you." He tweaked her nose.

"Love you more."

"Love you most."

"Love you times one million _billion_!"

John laughed at her enthusiasm. "Okay, you win."

Deanna smiled sleepily back, snuggling into her pillow. "Mmm-hmm, cause I'm a _Win_ chester."

It took John's tired mind a few moments to get that. Then he chuckled.

Flicking on the hall light, John frowned as it flickered every few seconds. Turning the light off, he checked the bulb, making sure it screwed in all the way. Once on, it continued to flicker. He grumbled under his breath. He'd just changed the bulb this afternoon. Maybe a faulty breaker or...something. He was a mechanic, not an electrician.

It was quiet downstairs. John checked the doors first. Locked and bolted, just like he'd left them. Then came the few windows that hadn't been opened or unlocked since the middle of October. Not a layer of dust out of place. Next came the basement, still unfinished and crammed with junk they'd accumulated over the years, mostly his. Mary kept her old things in the attic, hardly ever touching them. The hanging light bulb flickered. John glared at it until it stopped. The tiny half windows were intact and locked. Nothing looked out of place.

The main floor looked just as he left it. He yawned. Everything was fine, and it was time to go back to bed.

As John mounted the steps, a waft of cooler air swept over him. Odd. Hand on the banister, he turned around, examining the room. The front window, to the left of the door-one of the windows that didn't open-had spiderweb cracks like it'd been struck. John swore. Damn birds.

Pulling the curtain aside to better assess the damage, John swore again. Not only had the window cracked, the iron framing at its base snapped, leaving a good inch or two gap. John caught a whiff of rotten egg and changed his earlier statement. Damn teenagers. He looked hard at the cracked window, but couldn't see any smashed eggs. What the hell had they thrown? If he got his hands on whoever did this…they wouldn't think it was funny anymore. Feeding two kids on just his income wasn't easy. He'd have to pay to fix the window, the frame. On top of that, they'd manage to scare the hell out of his daughter.

At the end of the day that pissed him off the most.

John grumbled angrily, too wired now to go back to bed. Mary was sure to wake up, ask if everything was alright. She'd hear the hesitation in his voice, and even though everything _was_ technically alright, she might panic. God, he hated seeing her so scared. He sat heavily on the creaky couch, sighing. Oh well. He couldn't do anything about the window now, and he might as well wait and tell Mary in the morning. He flipped the TV on, channel surfing until he found some war movie. He settled in, eyelids drooping. He'd thought he was too wired to sleep, but he was out within five minutes.

Nearly two hours later, he woke to Mary screaming.

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And on that depressing note, I'll see you all next week.

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	2. Chapter 2

Here's this week's segment! I believe i mentioned before that the POV switches back and forth between John and Bill

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November 20th, 1983

There was a singer in the corner of the smoky room. Not exactly talented or original, but made for pleasant ambience. Under the stench of cigarette smoke, it smelled like spilt wine and cheap perfume. A rather unremarkable, stereotypical dive bar in Kansas. The mark was busy lining up his shot when the blonde leaned over the edge of the pool table. Pretty, and definitely a new face, most wandering eyes in the bar fixed on her. She smiled, eyes flickering between the two men but lingering on the mark. He halted, mouth parting a little, eyes straying down south.

"Winner can buy me a drink." She winked at the mark, hips swaying as she walked slowly to the bar. "Don't keep me waiting."

It wasn't ten minutes later that the mark lost. Miserably he stormed out of the bar, having blown much more money than his pride could afford. His opponent sauntered triumphantly to where the blonde sat at the bar. He waved the wad of cash. Her eyebrows raised, unimpressed.

"That was too close for comfort, Harvelle."

Bill shrugged, grinning at Ellen as he took his seat. He motioned to the bartender. "Two please."

Ellen was glaring at him. He raised an eyebrow. "What? You said winner could buy you a drink."

She narrowed her eyes. Ellen was pretty when she was angry, but she also scared the hell out of Bill sometimes. He was about to make a quip about her being too convincing a flirt (Which was true. Bill almost lost because he'd been distracted as much as their mark.) but thought better of it at the last second. Bill didn't really feel like joking after what happened the night before with the Kappa nearly killing him and pulling his liver out his keister (long story). Especially after their discussion in the aftermath.

It'd seemed like the perfect time to get some things out in the open. Aside from the burning monster...and the fact he'd almost the most romantic moment. Okay, so it wasn't the perfect time. In fact it was a terrible time, but hunters didn't get perfect moments. He had to take what he could get. Unfortunately, Ellen wasn't ready yet. Not then, maybe not ever.

Bill had said it was okay—and it was. Ellen could take all the time she needed. He loved her no matter what, even if she wouldn't let him say it. He just hadn't expected waiting to hurt so much.

The silence between them (relative silence, the singer was still crooning in the corner) dragged for a few minutes. Bill doodled lines in the perspiring glass with his thumb, thinking. He should have asked Fletcher more questions before they left. He and Ellen were headed into a hunt blind. Never a good idea. At least Fletcher had said he didn't think the thing was still in Lawrence, but he could always be wrong.

Ellen exaggerated a yawn, a clear signal that she was ready to leave the bar. Bill fought down a yawn in reply. Yes, it was definitely time to leave.

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The motel clerk gave them a king, without asking. It wasn't a problem. They usually got a king anyways, prevented a lot of questions. Besides, they shared a bed in the back of Bill's truck most nights. It wasn't a problem. And yet…

Ellen hesitated, frowning slightly at the bed in question. There was an awkwardness in their interactions now. Last night had been a cannonball through the carefully constructed boundaries they had. What used to be a non-issue was suddenly a minefield and Bill wouldn't make her cross it.

"I can take the floor." Bill murmured.

"Don't be a moron." Ellen said as he dropped his bag and the truck blankets on the floor. With that, she tossed her own bag on the bed and disappeared into the bathroom. Bill sat alone with his thoughts and the sound of Ellen's shower.

He moved the blankets to the bed, ignoring the ache in his muscles. He winced as he gingerly sat on the bed. Bill was glad Ellen had vetoed the floor. He would never admit it, but he was in a lot of pain. Sledding by the seat of his pants down a snowy, rocky bank left him covered in cuts and bruises. The rope burns on his right ankle stung with each brush of denim. Now that Ellen was out of earshot he let himself groan, poking a convenient bruise. It throbbed painfully. He hadn't expected anything else.

He pulled the newspapers from the side pocket of Ellen's bag. The papers went back a few weeks. Once again Bill wished he'd asked Fletcher more questions. They had nothing to go on but assumptions and a name:

John Winchester.

Bill leafed through the pages. Looking at headlines, obituaries, tearing out anything that looked promising. A small mountain of discarded newspaper rapidly gathered in the garbage can at his feet. By the time Ellen walked out of the bathroom, toweling her hair, Bill was sitting against the headboard with a small pile of torn newspaper in his lap. He had his silver knife out of its sheath, twirling it absently.

Ellen actually looked impressed. "You've been busy."

Bill shrugged, biting back a wince as he did.

Ellen watched his knife flicker and spin around his fingers. "You know, one of these days you're gonna lose a finger."

Rolling his eyes, Bill set it on the nightstand. He'd removed his coat and jacket for the first time since last night. Ellen was looking at the exposed bruises on his arms ashen faced when he turned back. Bill pretended not to notice, not sure how to handle that. Ellen walked around to his side of the bed. The mattress dipped under her weight as she sat next to him. Taking one of his arms, she ran her hands lightly along the bruises she could see. Those were the small ones. Bill caught a glimpse of the big ones on his back last night, when he changed out of his soiled clothing. Already mottled black and blue, it wasn't a pretty sight.

"How's your head?" Ellen was quiet.

"Attached." Gratified to see her lips twitch into a smile, Bill laughed ruefully.

Ellen's hands traveled up to the back of his head. Bill hardly dared to breathe. She was so close he could feel the leftover heat from her shower. Her cheeks were still flushed with color and she smelled like soap. Not the most flattering smell in the world, but Bill fought the urge lean closer and breathe deep. His heart pounded, pulse throbbing in his ears. Oh, she was so close. He wanted to kiss her. Kiss her till she was senseless and breathless and—

Bill drew in a sharp breath. Ellen snatched her hand back from the gash she'd accidentally nudged. "Oh god, I'm so sorry!"

Bill was shaking his head before she even finished. "Nah, it's good." He gritted out through clenched teeth. His cap had taken most of the damage. It was ruined, but on the bright side, he still had a head.

Ellen turned her attention to the sheaf of papers. The top article included a little black and white photo with three familiar faces. John was smiling. It wasn't the small, halfhearted smile Bill had briefly seen, or the bitter, pissed off smile that masked his fear. It was a wide smile. There were little crinkles around his eyes. He was thicker, not overweight by any means, but Bill realized just how much weight John had lost since. His oldest daughter Deanna sat in his lap, smiling shyly at the camera. There was a life in her eyes that had been absent when Bill met her. The last familiar face was mostly obscured. Baby Sammy must not have wanted to face the camera that day. Instead she was clinging to the fourth person in the photo. The woman was blonde, pretty. Her smile was soft, content. She was leaning against John's shoulder and Bill was certain she was half the reason he was smiling.

The headline above the picture was short and simple:

 **Fatal Fire Rocks Community**

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	3. Chapter 3

Longer chapter this week, hope you enjoy! Favorite, Follow, and Review if you do! Hey look, I even made a rhyme for you!

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 **November 5th, 1983**

Deanna hadn't spoken since the fire. Why should she have to? John bit his tongue as Katie tried for the umpteenth time to engage Deanna. He knew she was trying to help. Deanna sat silently at the counter, watching Katie make lunch. With each attempt to get her to talk, Deanna turned her head away. Her narrow shoulders pulled together. John could only see her back from the table. His heart clenched, stomach twisting. She was clearly uncomfortable, yet Katie plowed on.

"Here Sweetie, what would you like on your sandwich?" Katie looked at Deanna expectantly, raising her eyebrows. If Katie expected a reply then she was stupid. Deanna hadn't answered the last twenty times Katie asked similar questions, what made this any different?

Deanna hugged her knees. She put her head down on them.

Katie sighed heavily. John listened with rising temper as she put her hands on her hips, looking sternly at his daughter. "Deanna, look at me." When Deanna didn't look up, Katie put hands either side of her head and forced her head up. Anger flared in John's gut. "I won't know what you want for lunch if you don't tell me. Now tell me, what do you want on your sandwich?" Deanna tried to squirm out of Katie's grip.

Enough was enough.

"Leave her alone, Katie." It came out sharper than he'd intended. John made an effort to soften his voice. "You're not helping."

Katie's head snapped up to glare at him, Deanna sitting forgotten at the counter. "Well at least I'm trying, _John._ "

John's blood boiled, and he gritted his teeth. Anger born partly from guilt and resentment buzzed in his skull. John knew he shut down nearly as much as Deanna had after the fire. It was no secret he wasn't handling it well; which is where the resentment came from. Mike and Katie had taken them in, and John was grateful, he really was. What he couldn't handle was their expectation that the Winchesters' act as if everything were fine. It was as if they expected them to continue as if Mary had never existed. As if John hadn't seen—

John clenched, squeezing his eyes shut against the images that overwhelmed him. The stench of acrid smoke was suddenly fresh in his flared nostrils. He'd experienced flashbacks before, after Vietnam. He'd always been thankful that it rarely happened when he was awake. These were worse, uncontrollable and frequent. Anger boiled, threatening to surface. Katie had no _idea_ how hard he was trying. Had no idea just _how much_ he was failing. John breathed heavily through his nose, desperately trying to clear the roaring in his head. Oh _god_ that sound, the growling that came from everywhere and nowhere as the fire engulfed his wife. John fought back images and tears, biting his lip so hard he tasted blood.

Tiny hands on his arm pulled John out of the horror of his own mind. He turned to see Deanna looking up at him with her mother's eyes. Before he could reach for her, try to choke out that he was okay, she clambered on his lap, throwing her skinny arms around his neck. He held her tight, choking on unshed tears. Guilt and shame replaced his anger. How was he supposed to help Deanna when every second felt like an unbearable nightmare? Every second felt like he'd had the wind knocked out of him and he was barely breathing.

From upstairs came Sammy's exhausted, helpless cries. John covered his eyes with one hand. His lips pressed together until he could no longer feel them. Sammy hadn't been sleeping well, waking up crying. She'd hardly ever cried before the fire. Just a whimper here and there when she was hungry or needed to a diaper change. She never cried like that. Whenever she needed something she just stared patiently, with intelligent brown eyes that spoke louder than any cry.

Almost like she were reading their minds.

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 **November 21st, 1983**

Bill looked up at the burnt out shell that used to be a home. Snow had fallen during the night, blanketing the whole thing bone white. Blackened beams crept up from beneath the snow, creating empty skeletal sockets where walls once stood. Overcast skies threw everything into pale shadow. Bill grimaced. He remembered John's reaction to cremating the Kappa and shut his eyes tight. If only he'd known. He should have sent John inside the cabin, they didn't need him for that. John didn't need to see that.

The truck shook as Ellen closed the back. She slung her bag over her shoulder and mounted the sidewalk, leaving Bill behind. Bill was reluctant to go into the house. He always hated seeing what monsters left behind, especially when it involved a family. Which, all too often, it did. Worse, he'd met this family, seen their sorrow. He didn't want to go inside, but Ellen was already at the door. There was no way he would let her go in alone. He pushed off the truck with his elbows, hands in his pockets. His breath hovered in the pale morning light.

The door wasn't locked. The only barrier was a single line of police tape, which they ducked under. Bill closed the door behind them, in case anyone walked by. To his left he could see a family room, still filled with furniture and toys. Beyond that was the kitchen, dishes still in the sink. Bill's gaze swept right and the room morphed, walls slowly blackening, wallpaper curling off the walls. This side of the room was monochromatic, snow mixing with soot to create varying shades of black ash. The fire burned gaping holes into the walls. No wonder they hadn't bothered to lock the door; You could walk right in anyways.

The stairs were still semi intact. It was here the schism in the home started. Only a thin layer of soot and smoke covered the left half. To the right everything was charcoal and snow.

Bill didn't know where to start looking for clues. The fire probably obliterated most of them already. Bill shook his head slightly. It didn't matter, he had to find the thing that did this. Officially, this was ruled an electrical fire. Honestly, if another hunter hadn't sent him here, there was nothing to convince Bill otherwise. Not yet. The so called animal attacks (same animal, completely different parts of Lawrence on the _same night_ ) was a far more obvious hunt than this. However, John saved Bill's life. He owed him a look around.

Something had caught Ellen's eye. She may not think she was much of a tracker (which, to be honest, she wasn't) but she could always tell when something was off, even if she didn't know what. Bill followed her cautiously into the burned out room to their right. Beams had fallen from the room above, becoming crooked pillars. Bill ducked under them, careful not to hit his already aching head. The windows, like everything else, had blackened. Some had shattered, broken glass adding to the debris. Ellen leaned over what remained of the window sill, looking hard at something.

"What is it?" Bill couldn't hold back his curiosity. He kept an eye on the rest of the room. There was a chill here that had nothing to do with the weather.

Ellen shook her head. "I'm not sure." She stepped back, taking up watch as Bill knelt on the balls of his feet.

The window frame was metal, steel or iron, it was hard to tell. At the base of this window, it had snapped, leaving a good inch or two gap. Inside the gap was just as soot covered as the rest. It happened before the fire.

Bill inhaled deeply, then coughed violently. "Ugh, can you smell that?" He tried to spit the bad taste out, wrinkling his nose. "What the hell is that?"

"Uh, smell something? Like smoke?"

Bill exhaled heavily. He loved Ellen's sarcasm, but sometimes it drove him up the wall. "I'm serious. It's not the smoke, I can smell something else." He sniffed again and grimaced. It was like skunk spray, or—

"I guess it kinda smells like rotten eggs or something. Maybe there's still food in the fridge." Ellen shrugged.

Bill went still. A chill shuddered up his spine, blood gone cold as ice. "What?"

"I said it smells like—"

"Sulfur. It smells like sulfur."

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	4. Chapter 4

Hey everyone! Originally, this was going to be a much shorter chapter. However, I didn't want to do that to you guys, so I made the extra effort to edit the last section so it could be added to today's chapter. I hope you appreciate the effort!

As always, if you like the story, Follow, Favorite, and Review! Seriously, each one of those things make my day!

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November 8th, 1983

Mike and Katie finally convinced John to take Deanna to see a Child Psychologist. John would be lying if he said he wasn't beginning to worry about her. Supposedly this deceptively cheery office and the Psychologist with the far too sympathetic eyes held the solutions to all his worries.

Deanna still wasn't talking. John understood not wanting to talk. Hell, _he_ didn't feel like talking. That wasn't what worried him. Something had changed in both his girls, but the change in Deanna frightened him the most. John felt he knew his children pretty well. Deanna was his oldest, and he knew her moods and personality best. Sammy was still a baby, had been dependent on her mother. It made sense that she'd cry more, be needier than before.

Deanna didn't react like that.

She hardly budged from his side. Mike and Katie might see it as the same reaction as Sam's, but John knew her better. Wide, terrified eyes stared at the world around her. Her body tense as a spring, she'd begun flinching away from other people. John couldn't figure out a pattern to it. One minute she'd be sitting quietly as someone came through Mike and Katie's house, usually to pay their condolences or to ask John questions, and then suddenly she'd seize up, straight as a ramrod. Each time a certain person caused the change, but whether it was old Phoebe Lanning or a policeman didn't seem to matter. Visibly distressed, she'd look to John with her eyebrows pushed together. If the person tried to talk to or touch her she'd shrink back in fear. If they didn't get the message (which was a surefire way to piss John off) and kept doing what they'd been doing, she'd curl herself into a little ball, hands over her ears and eyes shut tight. She'd start whimpering, a horrible strangled sound, as if she was in pain.

When he explained this (as best he could, John was never good with emotions) the Psychologist stared at him levelly, expression unchanging. John felt like an idiot. He didn't know why. He'd expected that most of this visit would be the Doctor talking with Deanna, or trying to at least. Instead, she'd had Deanna sit at a little table in the corner of her office and draw pictures while she talked with John.

It was one of the worst experiences of John's life.

And that was saying something.

Every question, every comment brought up topics that John was in no way prepared to to discuss such painful issues, he mostly answered her questions by shaking his head. How had he been dealing with Mary's death? Badly. He'd never dealt well with strong emotions. Had he talked to Deanna about Mary's death? No. Had he talked to anyone about it? Not really. Had he cried? Had Deanna seen him cry? Each question slammed into him like a battering ram.

"She needs to see you grieving to know that it's okay. If she sees you hiding it, or worse, doesn't see you grieving at all, she will think she has to do the same."

John choked on his course she'd seen him grieving. They'd all been grieving. It was a quiet grief, but that didn't mean it wasn't there. He didn't cry in front of Deanna. He never let anyone see him cry. That was the way John was, a habit instilled in him as a child. The only person he'd ever cry in front of was Mary, and she was gone. The Psychologist looked at him with patient sympathy, which only made it worse.

At the end of it all, Deanna and John left her office with no improvement and a pit in John's stomach.

#

November 9th, 1983

John woke in a cold sweat. He shot straight up in bed, blinking hard. It was not the first time he'd woken in the middle of the night since the fire. Hair standing on end, he flipped the bedside lamp on. Aside from Sam, Deanna, and himself, the bedroom appeared empty. Though shadows danced in the flickering lamplight, he could see the origin of each. This did nothing to ease his panic.

Something was there. John could feel it, just as he felt the presence behind the fire and growl in Sam's nursery. His blood ran cold and panic rose in his chest. Out of habit, John reached between the bed and nightstand where he kept his baseball bat. Of course, it wasn't there. It had burned, just like every other possession they had. Goosebumps rose on John's arms and he shivered. Though the room still appeared empty, he suddenly found himself wishing he had a gun.

Deanna was in the borrowed crib with Sammy, both still asleep. No matter where she fell asleep, by the end of the night she was always with Sammy. A fierce surge of protectiveness extinguished his fear. Nothing would happen to them, he wouldn't let it. He gritted his teeth, speaking to whatever might listening. "Touch my children, and I swear to God I'll kill you."

There was a rippling sensation that gave the impression of laughter. John could feel it vibrate through his chest. Then it faded and vanished.

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November 21st, 1983

"Okay, so it smells like sulfur. What's the big deal?"

The engine hummed in the cab of their truck. The chill of dread hadn't left Bill. Gripped by winter, Lawrence was mottled white and drab brown. Dead grass peaked through patches of snow. The whole city felt like a husk.

Ellen, a capable hunter, should know the significance of sulfur. As her mentor, and the person responsible for dragging her into the life, her lack of knowledge was his fault. He didn't neglect this on purpose, it just never came up before. The rarity of what they were hunting…he wasn't prepared for this, and it was his fault Ellen wasn't either. Bill sometimes wondered if Ellen would've been better off without him, if he'd never got her into hunting. The answer was probably yes, yet given her previous encounters with the supernatural, inevitably it wouldn't matter. Those that brushed shoulders with what went bump in the night often confronted it again. Which was better, pretending monsters didn't exist and hoping they didn't find you, or fighting them?

Bill kept his eyes on the road and his voice flat. "Fire and brimstone." Ellen looked blankly at him. "'And the devil that deceived them was cast into the lake of fire and brimstone, and shall be tormented day and night for ever and ever.'" Ellen frowned, tilting her head. Bill turned to raise an eyebrow at her. "Revelations? No?"

Ellen shook her head, still looking at him as if he was crazy.

Bill sighed. Of course not. He only knew that because he had an evangelical pastor and his wife as foster parents. Two months and he had more bible verses memorized than he could shake a stick at. That particular one haunted him in the night. Listening to his foster siblings breathe quietly while he imagined the floor opening up and falling into a lake of fire. He had hated the Pastor for that.

"Demons, Ellen."

Ellen laughed, stopping as abruptly as she started. She went a little pale. "You're not kidding."

"Nope." Bill wished he were.

"Oh, hell no." Ellen made a disgusted noise. Covering her mouth, she turned to look out the window.

"You have no idea." Bill said softly. "I could whack Fletcher's gimp leg for sending us into this without a heads up."

Demons were rare. Some years saw spikes in activity, but for the most part, a demon showed up briefly, causing widespread chaos before a hunter managed to exorcise it. Or until it got bored.

"Maybe he didn't know. Besides, he did say he thought it was gone."

Bill shrugged reluctantly. "Still, a bit of warning would be nice. I probably only have one vial of holy water in the back."

Ellen bit back a shocked laugh. "Holy water?"

Bill resisted the urge to roll his eyes, nodding. Ellen shook her head disbelievingly. He raised his eyebrows. "All the things we've faced and you're drawing the line at demons and holy water?"

"I guess not."

Bill drummed his fingers on the steering wheel. "I'm gonna make a few calls from the room. Need to brush up on a few exorcisms. You think you can handle finding Fletcher's psychic?" He didn't want Ellen around for what he was about to do. Besides, how many psychics could a place like Lawrence have?

Pressing her lips into a thin line, Ellen shrugged. She was still pissed he hadn't asked Fletcher for at least a name. She had every right to be. Bill hadn't taken his time to question Fletcher, and now they were in over their heads and up the creek without a paddle.

After giving Ellen the vial of holy water (half full), his iron knife, and his keys, Bill let himself back into the dingy motel room. Locking the door, he quickly poured a line of salt in a wide half circle around it. Lines of salt at each window followed quickly. A simple, but effective way to keep out demons.

He watched Ellen pull away before putting the salt bag away and picking up the phone. The phone rang for an irritatingly long time. Bill started twirling his silver knife. It wasn't going to do him any good on this hunt. He was unprepared and the person he was calling would give him hell for it. Bill laughed humorlessly. Give him hell.

"Yeah?" The grouchy, slurred voice on the other end was unmistakable. Great, he'd been drinking again. Bill looked at the clock. It wasn't even noon.

"Hey Bobby, it's Bill." He kept his voice even, though his pride stung. He wasn't asking for help, just some information. However, that was basically the same thing when it came to Bobby Singer. Might as well own it if Ellen wasn't there. "Ah, god this is humiliating. I need your help."

* * *

I'd really like to know your thoughts on the story! I want to talk with you guys! I love supernatural and would love to have conversations about it and the story. Feel free to PM me or chat with me on tumblr!

Have a wonderful week and I will see you next Wednesday!

(Unless of course I get a big response on the story and post sooner as a treat ;D)


	5. Chapter 5

Hey guys! Sorry the upload is a day late! I just got back from vacation, and I didn't get in until this morning. I'm exhausted. In fact, after i'm done posting, i'm probably headed back to bed. I should really force myself to stay awake for a few more hours but...I'm tired.

Anyways, enough about me, enjoy this weeks chapter!

* * *

 **November 11th, 1983**

Of all the things to survive the fire.

John gripped the leather bound journal. The embossed initials in the left hand corner never failed to cut him like a knife. H.W. Henry Winchester. The one and only thing the good for nothing coward left him. John didn't even know why he had it. By all rights, it should be in Maine with his mother. Yet here it was, not even smoke damaged.

In fact, most of John's things in the basement were untouched by smoke or fire. John would trade all of it to have Mary back. She should have survived, not this piece of junk. Setting the journal aside before he gave in to the temptation to hurl it away, John continued going through the box. His old leather jacket was in there, a reminder of his teenage years and falling in love with Mary. It probably still fit, which was good since his coat hadn't survived the fire either. The case for his dress blues stood on one side of the box. It still held his medals, but the uniform itself was gone. He'd used it for Halloween, just two days before the fire, and hadn't got around to putting it back.

A small cigar box held photos from Vietnam, and letters from Mary he'd received during his service. He couldn't bear to look at them now, but he set those aside. Perhaps someday he, or one of the girls, would look at them and see Mary. It wasn't right, that they would only know her through pictures and stories. It wasn't fair.

Various other now meaningless mementos cluttered the box. Baseball trophies, a worn out mitt that was far too small for him now, and old report cards, of all things. John didn't know why he kept those, they were hardly positive. School was never an easy thing for him. Perhaps his mother hung onto them, putting them with his things.

 _Questions authority. Asks distracting questions about irrelevant topics. Unsociable with others._

Not exactly complimentary. However, being older and a little wiser now, John could see the positive in these traits. He'd been a curious child, always wanting to know the answers to everything. While one might think this made him an excellent student, they'd be wrong. Rarely was he curious about things taught in class, and if he was, he needed to know every small detail and drove his teachers batty. It didn't help that he gained the reputation of a troublemaker. He seldom started the fights, but somehow he usually garnered the blame.

 _Boys will be boys. If he weren't so weak, they wouldn't pick on him. They're toughening him up. He can't hide behind his mother's skirts forever. He has to learn to hold his own._

Yet when he did, he didn't hold back. Suddenly he went from being too weak to being a nasty little boy that broke Moe's nose and gave Larry a black eye, never mind the bruises he received in kind. A horrible boy if he won, but if he lost…

 _Boys don't cry, John._

John shook his head, banishing the unbidden thoughts. Was there anything he could think of now without pain? His years with Mary where the happiest in his life. Now they were tainted by grief.

Julie peeked around the corner, somberly studying John. "I'm headed out. You need anything?"

Barely looking up from the jumbled pile of memories, he shook his head. Julie nodded and left without another word.

It was a relief to be out of Mike's house, without Katie breathing down his neck. John was relieved to be away from all the people she'd let in to give their condolences. Nothing said 'I'm sorry for your loss' like bringing it up over and over again in front of your traumatized daughter. The thought still made John's blood boil.

It was nice to be around someone else that really was grieving for Mary. Julie had been Mary's best friend since Mary moved to Lawrence nearly twenty years ago, and felt her loss almost as much as John did. There was real concern and understanding behind the brief questions she asked John. Aside from that, she left him be. She didn't insist that any of them speak to her. For the first time since emerging from the near catatonia that followed the fire, John felt able to think, to really process what he'd seen.

What _had_ he seen? Every painful memory and flashback tore his sanity to shreds. It didn't make any sense. It _shouldn't_ make any sense. Yet the memories were there. Not a dream, not a nightmare, or hallucination like Mike said when John tried to tell him. They burned into his mind just as surely as the fire burned through his home. John just couldn't make any sense of it. When he did sleep, that reality of blood and fire filled his nightmares.

Speaking of sleep…

John checked his watch. A birthday gift from Mary, years and years ago. His first birthday back from the war, actually. Hardly a day went by since then he hadn't worn it. A solid tan line ran underneath the thick leather band. Like the line under his wedding ring. How could she be gone? Shaking his head to clear it, he looked at the time again. It was getting late. The girls each needed baths, needed to go to bed. John's head pounded from lack of sleep. Yes, he needed to sleep too, no matter what nightmares waited for him.

* * *

John woke to Deanna screaming. He was on his feet before his eyes fully opened. He was ready to fight, to kill whatever was hurting her. Fists clenched, eyes wild in the dim lamplight, John raked his eyes over the room. It was empty. Deanna's eyes were closed. She lay in the crib, curled up next to Sammy, screaming into her blanket.

Asleep.

Tension left John as he rushed to the crib. Bodily he lifted Deanna out. She began thrashing, striking out at him in her sleep.

"Deanna! Honey, it's me, wake up!"

He leaned against the wall, trying to hold her still. Desperately John tried to wake her up. Or soothe her, calm her down. John wasn't entirely sure what he was doing, but it wasn't working. Deanna was still screaming. John realized it was a word, long and stretched out beyond recognition. Over and over again.

"NO! NO!"

"DEANNA!" John shook her. "Wake. Up!"

Her eyes snapped open. "Daddy!" She screamed, still in the throes of whatever nightmare he'd pulled her from.

John crushed her to his chest. "It's me, I'm here, you're safe. You're okay, you're okay." He was trying to convince himself as much as her. He stroked her hair as the screams abruptly turned to sobbing. The only time John could ever remember her crying like that was when she was sick with a fever. The sobs were quiet and racked her whole body as she gasped for air in between.

The hairs on the back of john's neck stood on end, but it was only Julie. She scooped Sammy from the crib. A wave of guilt washed over John as he realized that Sam must have been crying this entire time. Julie, wide eyed and worried, gently rocked his red faced Sammy. She didn't say anything, like Katie would have. Suddenly John wasn't sure he preferred it that way. He _should_ have realized Sam was crying. How did he not _hear_ that?

Pressing his face to Deanna's, John gently rocked back and forth. It wasn't okay. He couldn't tell her that everything was okay. Everything was the opposite of okay. He couldn't tell her that lie, she would see right through it. That had to be more frightening, right? He had to say _some_ thing, but he couldn't—wouldn't lie to her. So he made a different promise, one he had no idea if he could keep.

"It'll be okay. I'm gonna make everything okay."

* * *

 **November 12th, 1983**

It had been a long sleepless night. Ironically, Sammy slept, well, like a baby despite Deanna's night terror. John and Deanna on the other hand…

John sat with his head resting heavily on the headboard. Deanna was finally asleep in his arms. Every few seconds she shuddered uncontrollably in her sleep. John tried not to tense when it happened. Even with the shutters closed tight, the room was invasively bright. John willed himself to sleep. He had to sleep. He needed to be cogent, functioning, if only for Sam and Deanna. But no, he couldn't sleep. If he slept, something might happen to them and he wouldn't be able to stop it. Like he hadn't stopped what happened to Mary. Because he was asleep. Because he wasn't where he should be.

The door creaked as Julie poked her head around the corner. Seeing Deanna finally asleep, she mouthed 'Okay?' forefinger and thumb forming a circle. John nodded, eyes half closed, returning the gesture. Julie nodded, leaving as silently as she came. John decided he preferred her approach. It was definitely more helpful than Katie's.

* * *

There it is! Nothing from Bill and Ellen this week. Their piece needs some major TLC, so that'll come next week. Or, if you guys **Review, follow, and favorite** , I **might post it earlier**! I hope you enjoyed this chapter guys!

Okie dokie, i'm exhausetd imma sleep now.


	6. Chapter 6

Hey guys! Uploading a bit later in the day than I meant, but life happened and I realized I hadn't posted yet, haha! Whoops! Sorry about that! Anyways, this chapter is longer than the others, because the first section is really short and I didn't want to cheat you guys out of content, cause I love you guys! Thank you so much for reading, and I really hope you enjoy it! I had a lot of fun with these sections, let me know what you think!

* * *

November 21st, 1983

Ellen was back sooner than he expected. Jaw and fists clenched, red in the face, she looked just about ready to murder someone. Bill hoped it wasn't him.

Bobby, unhelpful as ever, was still lecturing him about being 'an unprepared idjit'. What the hell did that even mean? Bobby had been calling Bill that since they met, and he still didn't know why Bobby didn't just call him an idiot. Not that being an unprepared idiot was better than an unprepared idjit. Or maybe it was. In any case, Bill interrupted Bobby. "Uh, gotta go Bobby. Ellen's back and she looks pissed."

"Did you send her out after a demon alone?" Bobby sounded furious.

Bill snapped. "Hell no! I would never—" Ellen knocked furiously on the door after jiggling the handle. He could either face Bobby's ire, or Ellen's. "Bye Bobby."

Hanging up on his irate associate, Bill opened the door, doing his best to look casual. He leaned against the doorframe. "Hey there, Ellen!" She pulled her head back, frowning at him. Then she rolled her eyes, stepping over the salt line carefully. He watched her go by. "That didn't take as long as I expected."

Ellen glared at him. Bill flinched, waiting for the bomb to go off. "Don't you think if I'd found the psychic I'd have brought him with me?"

"Uh…"

She held up a long list of names and addresses jotted down on motel stationery. "Do you have any idea how many psychics there are in this county alone? It's going to be like finding a needle in a haystack!" She shoved the paper in Bill's chest.

Bill sighed, grabbing the paper before it fell. This would be a lot easier if he knew Fletcher's number. Or where he was. Bill screwed up, and he knew it. He made his bed and now he had to lie in it.

* * *

November 14th, 1983

After two more nights of night terrors, John finally gave in. Even if the psychologist they'd seen had been a waste of time, that didn't mean someone, anyone else would be the same. Deanna needed the help. John needed the help. He was so far out of his depth he could feel himself drowning. Every time he opened his mouth, to try to talk to Deanna, to help her, water rushed in and he was choking. Neither of them could speak.

Which was precisely the problem. John could not speak about the fire, or what he'd seen. He'd tried with Mike, and it went horribly. He knew better than to try again. Deanna couldn't speak at all. What it might do to her in the end terrified John. What it was doing now chilled him to the bone. He'd seen eyes like hers in civilians and soldiers during and after the war. The ones so traumatized by what they'd seen that they just…faded away. Buried themselves with whatever vice they could find and kissed the world goodbye.

John would be _damned_ if he let that happen to his daughter.

There was no dealing with what he saw. Not without being sent to the nuthouse. Part of John wanted to give into that. To let the horror in his mind win and spiral into madness. It would be so easy, but he loved his girls too much. They'd already lost their mother, he wasn't going to let them lose him too. He would be there. He would protect them. He would _not_ abandon them.

He was not his father.

John thumbed through the dusty phonebook Julie rescued from the closet under the stairs. Tattered and beat up, it received no mercy from John Winchester. He flipped the pages savagely, cursing as it withheld the information he so desperately needed. The phonebook gave as good as it got, and after several paper-cuts John still hadn't managed to find PSY in the yellow pages.

John raised his eyes to the ceiling. Closing them, he breathed deeply through his nose, then out through his mouth. In, out. In, out. His pulse slowed to match his breathing. John turned the pages carefully. He needed to control himself. Impatience would get him nowhere.

Oh for the love of god, this wasn't going to work. How could anyone, even a shrink, fix all this? Mary was dead, and no amount of talking about grieving would fix that. Drawing pictures and dissecting them would not get Deanna to talk. She didn't want to talk. Even if she did, talking about losing her mother wouldn't change the fact that Mary would never see Deanna's first day of school, or her first softball game. Mary wouldn't cry about her baby being all grown up as they sent her off to her first school dance. She wouldn't see Sammy's first steps or hear her say her first word. She wouldn't even get to see Sammy crawl for the first time.

How was talking going to fix _any_ of that?

John pinched the bridge of his nose, fighting back tears. His mouth quivered and he bit his bottom lip to stop it. _Boys don't cry, John._ Fists clenching involuntarily, the paper pulled and tore in his hands. He forced himself to breathe slowly. Maybe talking wouldn't fix anything, but it had to be better than succumbing to anger and despair. He had to do _something_ or he'd lose his mind. If he hadn't already.

He turned his attention back to the phone book. Photography, physical therapy, Prosthetics. P S Y where was the P S Y? Ah-ha, there it was. A graphic of an eye inside a palm caught John's eye, stopping him in his tracks.

 **Psychic Readings. Understand the impossible mysteries in your life.**

It was stupid. Ridiculous. Under normal circumstances John would have laughed at it for a good twenty minutes. Yet…what if?

A faint spark of hope flared in John's mind. What if he were looking at this all wrong? What if there were someone out there that could help him, help Deanna, without them having to talk? They wouldn't have to tell a psychic anything. They would know what was wrong with Deanna, how to help her, without forcing her to speak. Maybe, just maybe if they saw what John saw happen to Mary, they would believe him.

What if they had an answer to what happened that night?

* * *

November 21st, 1983

Ellen was acting weird. Bill was used to her temper, but it seemed even shorter than usual. She hunched over the steering wheel. Bill could hear her gritting her teeth. He stayed silent, wary of setting her off. This whole hunt was quickly turning into a train wreck and Bill didn't quite know what to do. Bobby was right, he was an idjit, whatever that meant. Here he was, a hunter, late to the game with a giant list of names the only thing he had to go on. Some help he was. Bill wasn't good at research, and he knew it. Whenever possible, he avoided it. As a result however, it frequently got him into binds like this.

The drive to the nearest psychic was tense. Any moment the tension could pop like a balloon. It made Bill feel twitchy. Ellen's mood went beyond the long list of names. Did she suspect he'd called Bobby? That wouldn't make her angry though, she would laugh at that. It wasn't lack of sleep, she'd gotten plenty. Bill knew that because he hadn't. Bill was clueless. Maybe it _was_ just the list of names. Or it could be the cold. She hadn't complained about it for a while. Bill drummed his fingers on the list of names as he circled the ones most likely to be Fletcher's friend.

Ellen glanced sideways at him, glaring. "Stop that."

Bill held his hands up in surrender. As he went back to circling names, he consciously fought tapping his free fingers on his thigh. He wiggled his toes instead. Couldn't see that, could you Ellen?

"Bill, for the love of god, would it kill you to stay still?"

Or maybe she could.

Bill gritted his teeth. It was driving him crazy. He tapped the pen on the paper twice before catching himself.

Relief came as Ellen pulled up to a series of shabby stores. Wedged between Hal's laundromat, and what looked like a comic book store, 'El Divino' had a narrow space to work with. Wind chimes tinkled rather irritatingly in the bitter wind. Those things always creeped Bill out. A chill went up his spine that had nothing to do with the cold and everything to do with unpleasant memories. Stained glass stars and crescent moons hung from the metal chimes. None of them matched any Hunter's Signs he knew of. The same motifs surrounded the sign in El Divino's window. Bill found it rather silly. Then again, psychics were expected to put on a show for those not in the know. It kept them from looking too hard at what might actually be going on.

A bell chimed cheerfully as Bill opened the door for Ellen. She narrowed her eyes but didn't say anything. Bill didn't really get why she didn't like him doing that, but it would feel rude if he just suddenly stopped doing it. Besides, he'd been raised to act like a gentleman, and gentlemen opened doors for people. It was probably one of the last vestiges of his southern upbringing.

The wallpaper was striped red and yellow, like clown pants. Not an encouraging sign, but Bill gave El Divino the benefit of the doubt. The wallpaper could have come with the place. Or maybe it was just really old. It didn't look old. The chairs were plain, plastic. Bill wondered if the laundromat was missing a few of theirs. The coffee table in front of them however was bright red, like the wallpaper. Nicks in the wood showcased the original color. Carved into the edge of the tabletop stars and the phases of the moon stood out rather obviously, even for a psychic. Strangest, and silliest of all, a stuffed crow hung on the wall above the reception desk. It stared at them with beady little eyes and Bill fought back a laugh.

Ellen pinged the reception bell impatiently, waiting only a few moments before pinging it again. The sound of shuffling and cursing reached them from the back room. A muted 'whump', followed by more cursing, had Bill biting his cheeks to keep from laughing. Ellen scowled at him. "Behave" She mouthed as El Divino opened the door.

He was smiling broadly, as if they were old friends. Deeply tanned, his skin matched his eyes and hair. Except for the streak of hair dyed white. Bill suspected its purpose was to make him appear outlandish, but really only succeeded in making him look like Cruella Deville. With his silk shirt only partially tucked in, Bill concluded that they'd caught him with his pants down. The thought made him want to laugh.

El Divino extended his hands to Ellen first. The handshake was enthusiastic enough to make Ellen uncomfortable. Then he was on Bill before he could think of a way out. Bill winced, gritting his teeth into what he hoped looked like a smile. The handshake pumped his sore muscles, pulling the scrapes on his back. His aching skull rattled and for a few moments Bill's vision went dark.

Thankfully El Divino let go quickly, his smile faded somewhat. "Forgive me, I should have known better, after your accident." He looked meaningfully at Bill, expecting some kind of reaction.

He wasn't going to get it. Bill's head felt like it was on fire. Ellen put a hand on his shoulder, trying to meet his eyes. "You okay?"

"Yeah, I'm fine. Give me a moment."

El Divino clasped his hands together to dispel the awkwardness. "Well," was he really talking that loud, or did it just feel loud to Bill? "What can I do for you today?" El Divino held his hands up dramatically, closing his eyes. "Wait, wait, don't tell me." Palms out, he swayed from side to side, humming low. Bill looked at Ellen, raising an eyebrow. She mirrored his reaction. Bill frowned, shrugging. Psychics were a weird bunch, which made the real ones hard to pick out from the frauds.

El Divino stopped swaying, hands hovering over Ellen's abdomen. It was a little too close for comfort. Bill found himself unconsciously clenching his fists. El Divino opened his eyes. "Ah, I think I see a little one coming your way soon."

A little one? Huh?

Ellen went bright red. Murderous rage flashed in her eyes. Her lips tightened into a razor thin line. Bill had never seen her so angry. She spoke slowly, in a tone that made Bill and El Divino shrink back. "I. am not. Pregnant."

Wha—oh. _Oh._

"I didn't say _now,_ I said—"

Bill had to give El Divino props. He was either brave or stupid, standing his ground like that.

"I. don't. care." Ellen growled. Bill tried to make himself as small as possible. "I'm not pregnant, I'm not going to be pregnant, just shut up and listen." El Divino cowered, shamefaced. "Do you know Fletcher Gable?"

El Divino frowned, mouth unconsciously beginning to mouth "Who?"

Ellen spun around, not waiting for any further confirmation, growling softly to herself. Bill followed cautiously, shaking his head at El Divino. Not brave, just stupid and desperate for business.

This was going to be a long day.

* * *

Well, what did you guys think? If you know who Bill is, that last prediction is pretty funny if I do say so myself.

Also, John's section is the seed this fanfic came from. I will get into that a bit more in the end notes of the next chapter, cause I don't want to spoil anything.

If you enjoyed, please leave a comment to tell me, it really helps. If you can't wait for more, favorite and follow! If i get enough of those, I'll start posting bi-weekly. Speaking of, if that happens, which day would you like me to post?


	7. Chapter 7

Welcome back guys! I'm really excited for this week's chapter! I hope you guys enjoy it!

* * *

 **November 14th, 1983**

John wasn't a complete idiot. He knew the whole psychic thing was a long shot. Most of the names on his list were likely scam artists. He was desperate, but not so desperate that he couldn't think. Not yet, anyway. Leaving the girls with Julie for the day was hard, but the last thing they needed were more strangers.

Madame Levine's foyer was decked out like the interior of a hippie van. White shag carpet rugs rested beneath large fluffy lovesacks and the dark stained wood of the coffee table. Purple walls dimmed the sunlight filtering in from the blinded windows. Purple, paisley drapes hung from useless, decorative hooks. They were for show, rather than function.

Levine herself was an odd-looking woman. John had a feeling it was on purpose. Her dark red hair was curly and ratted so that it shot out away from her face. Loose purple fabric draped her frame. John wondered if she made the dress from the drapes. She wore round glasses that reminded John quite strongly of John Lennon. Her nose was long and crooked, lips thin. The more he thought about it, the more she looked like Lennon—

"Yes, the resemblance is very strong. You are very observant, John."

Huh?

John raised an eyebrow at her from where he was perched uncomfortably on a particularly squishy lovesack. Levine's voice shook slightly, deep, ethereal. "You were just thinking that I resemble a certain, dearly departed musician whose name you share. "

For a split second, John was impressed, inclined to believe her, but—wait. This woman didn't have to be psychic to realize people thought she looked like John Lennon. She'd probably been told that for years. It was probably intentional. John narrowed his eyes slightly. He wasn't that easy to fool. Besides, he had a plan. He was sticking to it.

"Okay," He began, stopping as he struggled to heave himself off the lovesack. He had to try a few times. The things were absolutely useless as chairs. On his feet, he continued. "Let's get one thing straight," Levine raised her eyebrows, keeping her expression aloof. "I'm here for a very specific reason. You tell me what it is, we'll talk. If you can't, I'm out that door, you don't get a cent."

Madame Levine seemed a little taken aback, but she recovered quickly. "Of course, I've been expecting you John." Of course she had. "The universe told me of your coming."

John resisted the urge to roll his eyes. Oh _please_.

"You want to speak with Mary. I can make that happen."

Now John did roll his eyes. "You're right. I do want to talk to her." He gritted his teeth, pursing his lips to keep them from quivering. He cleared his throat. "But that's not why I'm here." Before Madame 'fraud' Levine could utter a protest, John pushed past her and was out the door.

* * *

 **November 21st, 1983**

By afternoon, Bill hated himself for not quizzing Fletcher properly. Ellen was furious, and although the string of mistaken pregnancy announcements and declarations that their dead parents approved of their upcoming wedding were downright funny, Bill feared for his life with every escaped laugh.

They were going to see one last psychic before taking a break to get some food. Madame Levine seemed a more likely candidate than others, even if she was a bit farther away.

Sitting in the fluffy beanbag was bliss on Bill's back. He sprawled out, closing his eyes as he rested his head. He had never understood the appeal of these things until now. It was downright comfortable. Or it would be, if he could be patient. The psychic they were here to see was busy, and they were in a hurry. Bill wanted to find this thing before it did any more damage. Who cared if the crazy old cat lady wanted to speak to her dearly departed mousetraps, actual lives were at stake here! He drummed his fingers on his thigh. Come on come on!

Ellen grabbed his hand. He opened his eyes, turning to look at her. She didn't look as angry as before. She actually looked a little worried. "Hey, what's up with you?"

What's up with him? she was one to talk. She'd been grouchy and livid all day. What did she mean what was up with him? Nothing was up with him. "Nothing. I'm fine."

Ellen narrowed her eyes. "Bill…" she warned.

"What?" What on earth had he done to deserve this? The lecture on being unprepared, that he deserved. Ellen angry with him because he hadn't talked with Fletcher before they left, completely earned that. Why was she pissed at him now?

They were interrupted as one of the doors to the back opened and the little old lady walked slowly out, thanking their psychic even slower. Bill groaned, rolling his eyes. Without thinking, Ellen elbowed him in the ribs. Bill's muscles seized , face contorting as he bit back the pain. He forced himself to breathe, stars dancing in his closed eyes. He waved Ellen away, ignoring her concern and apology. Bill knew she hadn't meant to hurt him. Ellen forcefully 'helped' him up. He wished she left him in the beanbag, but the psychic was waiting for them.

Overall, the psychic looked like she'd stuck her finger in an electrical socket. Curly hair stuck out from her head like a pompom. She was bony and fairly unattractive. She wore little John Lennon glasses high on her thin, crooked nose. Hang on, she actually looked a lot like Lennon. Odd.

"The resemblance is very strong. You are quite observant."

Bill frowned. Okay, she may have just read his mind. If she had, then he was so sorry for thinking she was unattractive. It was true, but it wasn't a polite thought.

"Uh," Ellen frowned. "Which one of us are you talking to?"

"Both. I do look like John Lennon, don't I?"

Ellen tried not to smile. "Oh, that's who you look like. I was still trying to figure it out."

Bill decided to tease her, while she was still in a good mood. "You? I thought you'd see that right away, you being totally in love with him and all."

Ellen blushed slightly. "I was _not_ in love with him!" She waited until Bill grinned in triumph before adding. "I was always more of a Harrison girl."

Bill frowned. Harrison? He didn't remember there being a Harrison in the Beatles. He'd never been a big fan to begin with, he just liked teasing Ellen about her former hippie glory. Which usually put him in the doghouse, but it was usually worth it. This time, however, she'd won. He shrugged. "Harrison, Lennon, whatever."

The psychic was waiting for them, smiling serenely. It was kind of creepy. She held her hand out politely. "I am Madame Levine, but you knew that already."

Bill hadn't, but shook her hand anyway. Levine held onto his hand, flipping it over to look at his palm. Bill snatched his hand away. "Uh, no thank you."

Madame Levine looked levelly at him. "You worry about what your future holds. I can give you answers," She inclined her head meaningfully. "For a reasonable price."

Bill's hand felt cold. "Not why I'm here." Ellen raised an eyebrow at him. He shook his head.

"I understand your reservations, but it is urgent that you seek my counsel. The knowledge I give could save your life."

Bill shook his head adamantly. If she could read his mind, she knew that was never going to happen. He was getting this over with. "Enough. Do you know someone named Fletcher Gable?"

Madame Levine frowned, a brief dip in her eyebrows. That was enough for Bill. He turned, leaving the room as fast as he could without running.

"What was that about?" Ellen rushed to catch up with him, the screen door nearly catching her on the way out.

Bill shook his head. "Nothing. I just don't put much stock in palm reading." He pulled his hand out of his pocket. "Mind if I drive?"

* * *

I know at the end of last chapter, I said i'd be explaining the seed for this story but...I miscalculated on that. Whoops. It'll a few chapters yet. What do you think? Is Madame Levine scam or psychic? Neither John nor Bill gave her much of a chance.

Follow, Favorite, and Review! As always, if I get enough of a response i'll start posting more often! I haven't gotten that yet, but **YOU** can change that!


	8. Chapter 8

Sorry about the late posting! I'm majorly sick and having a rough time just breathing, let alone posting. This week hasn't been kind. Fell down the stairs on Sunday, got sick on Monday night, and now a certain biological visitor is making itself known. Yeah, i'm having a crappy week and most of you are probably saying "TMI" at this point, so i'll stop. Enjoy! (the chapter, not the TMI stuff)

Also, the psychics in these chapters are a reference to the season 1 episode "Home", where a list of psychics is read. I ran with it and had fun imagining what each was like. Let me know what you think!

* * *

 **November 14th, 1983**

El Divino El fraud-o had the same idea as Madame Levine. John barely had time to sit down before he brought out the Ouija board. John left without a word to the surprised 'psychic'.

Standing outside the creaky old building that housed—John felt stupid even thinking the name—The Mysterious Mister Fortinski, he considered skipping this one. John didn't find it likely that a legitimate psychic would need a ridiculous title like that to bring in business. Hell, why would one even choose to make a living this way? Predicting trends on Wall Street seemed a better option than nearly living on the street if Fortinski had the abilities he claimed.

Which he probably didn't.

John took a deep breath. The frigid air did little to clear the tired fog from his mind. Ah well, if he was going to do this, he ought to be through. Besides, he was doing this for Deanna. It didn't matter if it was ridiculous, as long as it worked. He needed it to work.

The door creaked heavily as John stepped inside. The interior was dim and dusty, lit only by candles. Wake up and smell the dark ages, Fortinksi. John wondered if the candles were for show or if the city cut the power to this dump.

"Good evening." The man (The Mysterious Mister Fortinski himself) had light hair that was quite obviously a hairpiece. The three-piece suit he wore was flamboyant. The vest was bright purple, as was his pocket-handkerchief and tie. The chain of a pocket watch hung from his slacks. Worst of all, he spoke with a European accent so thick it had to be fake. "I've been expecting you, John Winchester."

Oh, he read the newspaper. Good for him.

"I bet you have." John said dryly. He gestured to Fortinski's getup. "By the way, Halloween was a few weeks ago."

The Mysterious Mister Fortinski sniffed disdainfully, sticking his nose in the air. He dramatically folded his arms. "I'm afraid your negative aura is clouding my third eye. If you would like my help, you need an open mind."

John narrowed his eyes. "My _negative aura_? Am I supposed to have a 'positive' aura after what happened to my wife?"

Fortinski spread his hands disarmingly. "Of course not, Mr. Winchester, I only meant—"

"What do you usually do? I mean, people who lose loved ones must come in with 'negative' auras all the time, right? Do you give them that excuse too?"

"Of course not, I—"

"Lie to them. Just like everyone else who comes to you for help." John turned to leave, but his anger got the better of him. He turned back to Fortinski. "What's wrong with you people? You're like a pack of vultures, you know that?" John scoffed in disgust. "I mean, these people come to you for help, right? How _exactly_ do you help them?"

The Mysterious Mister Fortinski sputtered like an engine turning over. Very Mysterious. "I—I give them closure, answers to questions from beyond the grave!"

"No!" John interrupted him, fury rising. Fury at Fortinski, at Madame Levine, and El what's-his-face. Fury at himself, for being such an idiot to think any of them might be the real deal. Fury that they wouldn't, couldn't help him or Deanna. He pointed an accusing finger at the trembling magician, his voice rising with his temper. " _You_ tell them what they want to hear, what will get you money. You don't _care_ about them. You don't give a _damn_ about my daughter _or_ the pain she's in." John looked away, shaking his head, then looked Fortinski in the eye. "How do you _sleep_ at night?"

The Mysterious, not so amazing Mister Fortinski was left stammering, but relieved as John slammed the door behind him. The windows rattled, and then cracked, making him jump.

John didn't even hear the glass shatter.

* * *

 **November 21st, 1983**

The sun was going down. Ellen was waiting in the truck, going over the articles and names of psychics while Bill ordered some food. The little drive inn was busy for a Monday. Families milled around, little children ducking around Bill's feet. Just a few weeks ago, the little Winchester girl was one of them. Bill sighed sadly. He wasn't any closer to finding the thing that killed her mother. From personal experience, Bill knew that killing the thing would only put a bandage over that loss. Nothing could replace losing a parent.

"Sir?"

Bill's head snapped up. The pimply teenager, probably the age he'd been when he started hunting, looked at him expectantly. Bill realized he was waiting for his order. He quickly gave it, conscious of the locals staring at him. Lawrence wasn't exactly a small town, but they knew an outsider when they saw one. Stepping out of the way to wait for his order, he pulled the lapels of his coat up; both to keep out the cold and to mask his face.

Ellen had a hand over her eyes when Bill arrived with the food. "What is it?" He asked. She traded him an article for her coffee. She liked it black, crazy woman. Bill looked at the article curiously. It was one about the animal attacks.

"We're idiots." Ellen stated sullenly.

"Oh, yay, it's not just me then?"

"I'm serious, Bill. Look at the address."

Bill looked at the article again, scanning it for the address. He shrugged, not seeing the significance. "So?"

Ellen held up their list of psychics. She'd boxed one off from the rest. It was on the same street as one of the attacked homes. In fact, it was right next door.

Bill closed his eyes, head falling into his hands. Ellen was right. They were complete and total idiots.

* * *

Yeah, it's kinda short. But the next one should be much longer and things will be coming together. It's pretty exciting!

Anyways, i'll go back to hacking and coughing up my lungs. I love all of you and appreciate you reading my work!


	9. Chapter 9

Heya guys! Welcome back to another installment of House of Ashes! I've been looking forward to this chapter so much! Thank you guys so much for reading!

* * *

 **November 14** **th** **, 1983**

After the terrific failures of the day, John nearly called it quits before arriving at Missouri Moseley's home. However, he was nearly through his list of psychics, one more couldn't hurt.

It was in better condition, in a better part of Lawrence than most places he'd been that day. Strings of beads might hang from the doorways, but they were pulled to either side, draped like curtains. It was almost classy. Two women were chatting in the foyer, drinking out of teacups as John entered. The first woman, which John assumed was Missouri, had a bohemian look to her. Her clothes were loose, neck and arms decked out all manner of beads and charms. Her curly hair was long, held back by a multi-colored bandana. The second woman, thinner than Missouri, was dressed much simpler. She was a usual client by the way the two were talking.

Impatient but exhausted, John resigned himself to wait till they finished. He sat heavily in the dark leather couch. It was cold, chilly to the touch. John was tired. He longed for _his_ couch, the one ruined by ash and soot. Or the rocking chair in the nursery, where—

John regretted the train of thought instantly. Fire and Mary's gaunt, horrified face erupted across his sight. The terror in her eyes as she gasped shallowly for breath. Dark fire devouring her and the nursery ceiling, blood pooled and dripped from a horrible gash in her abdomen. The sound of her screaming rang in his ears, the scream that pulled him from sleep just in time to watch her die—

The sharp clatter of china against hardwood startled John out of the waking nightmare. Head snapping up, he and Missouri looked at the other woman in surprise. Her hands were frozen halfway to her mouth. Her dark eyes were wide, mouth hanging open. She was staring at John in horror.

Missouri put a hand on her arm. She looked concerned. "What is it, is something wrong?"

The other woman jumped slightly, heaving a fake sigh of relief. "Oh! Yes, excuse me, that had nothing to do with what we discussed. I'll see you next week, yes?"

Missouri nodded, brow furrowed. Unconvinced. Still she shrugged, smiled politely at John and walked out the door.

John frowned. Why would Missouri leave if another customer were there? Why was the other woman still standing there, looking at him expectantly? Wait a minute. John looked at the woman again. She was dressed simply in a turtleneck and slacks, a simple long strand of beads around her neck the only jewelry she wore. Her dark curly hair styled carefully into a small afro. "Wait, _you're_ Missouri?"

She nodded cautiously. "I am." She said after a moment.

"Missouri Moseley, the psychic."

"Yes." Her accent was southern. John wouldn't be surprised if she were named after the state she was from.

Well, this was awkward. John was at a loss for words. "Uh, sorry, I shouldn't have assumed. You just don't…" He trailed off. There was no polite way to say 'you just don't look like the other phonies.' He cleared his throat, holding his hand out. "I'm John Winchester."

Missouri slowly pulled back from his hand as if he'd just offered her a rattlesnake. Like she was afraid he'd bite. There was a long, awkward pause. John looked at his hand, then noticed the teacup lying broken on the floor.

"Here, let me get that." Missouri stepped back as he got closer. He bent down, carefully picking up the jagged pieces. It must have been nearly empty when Missouri dropped it. There was hardly any tea (or was that coffee?) to clean up. He grabbed a tissue from the box on the coffee table, wiping it up.

"Oh, thank you John." Missouri said with a forced smile. "If you wouldn't mind bringing that back here to the kitchen…"

The kitchen was white. White tile, white cupboards and counters. The transition from the dark wood of the rest of the house was jarring. It hurt John's eyes.

"Go on and put that in the sink, if you don't mind."

John noticed Missouri was careful to keep a few paces between the two of them. Did he smell bad? Despite heavy laundering, it was possible his remaining clothes still smelled like smoke. But, no, the look in Missouri's eyes was nervous, not disapproving or disgusted. John frowned, but kept his mouth shut. She was a psychic. Acting weird seemed to be part of the job description.

Missouri frowned, narrowing her eyes at him. She actually looked…offended. Hands on hips she walked through a different door than the one they came in. John followed curiously. It was the parlor. There was a couch and a few simple armchairs surrounding another coffee table. Missouri sat on the furthest side of the couch from him. She gestured for him to take a seat in one of the armchairs.

Neither of them spoke after John sat. John looked at Missouri, who stared nervously back. She tangled the beaded necklace around her fingers, never quite meeting John's eye directly. John's impatience was returning from its hiatus following the teacup dropping. He raised an eyebrow at Missouri. _Okay, psychic girl, tell me why I'm here. If you can._

Missouri shuddered slightly, looking down at her hands.

This was stupid. Pointless. John looked at the light fading from the opaque glass window. Julie would be fixing the girls dinner soon. Sammy would probably be crying, Deanna still not talking. He'd been away from them all day, the first time since the fire, and for what? A bunch of whack-a-doos and no answers. John's lip curled in self-disgust. Perhaps he was just going crazy after all.

Abruptly he stood, walking quickly to the door that he assumed lead back to the foyer. He wasn't giving up, he'd find another way to help Deanna. He'd find out what happened to Mary.

"You're not going crazy!" Missouri blurted out behind him. John froze mid-step with his hand over the doorknob. She sighed in defeat behind him. "You're not."

His stomach knotted and dropped into his suddenly ice cold feet.

"I know that makes all this so, so much worse. I—I didn't want to tell you. But I can tell you won't stop until you know the truth about what you saw."

John didn't dare move. He felt if he did, everything would just shatter and he'd wake up from a dream. He had to be sure this wasn't a trick. But how could it be? How could she know he wanted answers about something he _saw?_ That he felt he was going insane? No, he had to be sure. His voice was quiet, barely audible, even to himself. "And what did I see?"

"Your wife burning on the ceiling."

* * *

 **November 21** **st** **, 1983**

Bill armed himself with his iron knife, leaving Ellen with the holy water. She was going in to see the psychic while Bill checked out the aftermath of their 'animal attack'. Hopefully neither of them ran into trouble. He put his hand on Ellen's arm, stopping her before she could get out. She looked at him. He studied her carefully. She had changed so much from when they met. She'd been frightened and relatively helpless, trying to figure out what was going on around her. She'd known nightmares were real, but not how to fight them. He couldn't say he'd taught her any of what she knew now. She was as much a self-made hunter as he was. That didn't mean he couldn't worry about her. "Be careful, okay?"

Bill was relieved when she smiled. He could never tell how she would react to his protectiveness. Ellen leaned forward, kissing his cheek briefly. Bill barely had time to return the gesture before she pulled away and slid out of the truck. He watched her go for a few moments, touching his cheek. Bill's stomach knotted. He had a bad feeling about all of this.

"Use the force, Bill." He muttered under his breath, not bothering to lock the truck up. He didn't feel like laughing at his own joke.

What was left of the door clung to its hinges. There was a large hole in it, as if a battering ram had crashed through it. A battering ram with claws the size of an encyclopedia. Bill looked down at his small iron knife. He groaned, swearing under his breath. He stuck an arm into the gap, wiggling it enticingly. In the event of something chomping it off, he could still run away. Unlike, say, his leg. He knew hunters who made that mistake. He didn't know them long. Nothing took the bait. Taking a deep breath, Bill ducked inside the gaping maw of the door.

The fading light from outside barely filtered inside. It felt colder, like any heat had been sucked right out. The hairs on the back of Bill's neck stood up. He felt along the wall for the light switch. It was farther than he expected. "Come on, come on. Ah-ha!" he flipped it up. No change. Bill toggled it up and down a few times before giving up. Great, just great. He fished the flashlight from his belt. The dull 'click' was too loud. Bill realized that it was the only sound besides him breathing. It was too quiet.

Shining the flashlight down the hall, Bill could see claw marks in the wood floor. The span of each set was bigger around than he was. He groaned inwardly. This was gonna suck. Creeping slowly down the hall, he turned every few seconds to look behind him. He shone the light into each room, inspecting it carefully before moving on.

The first splatter of blood didn't appear until Bill nearly stepped in it. It was days old, frozen and foul. Bill gagged, covering his mouth with the arm that held up the flashlight. His tight grip on the iron knife was slippery with sweat. Great swathes of blood covered the room from ceiling to floor. Black tape outlined where bodies—or body parts, more likely—had been. Frozen blood had stopped mid-drip on the walls. The stuff streaked everything.

Bill stepped carefully around each patch of blood, shining the flashlight around the room to examine it. A table had been overturned, as well as the couch. At least one person had tried to hide. The thing hadn't spared them for it. Drag marks from fingernails cast shadows by the upturned couch. Bill could imagine them screaming.

The smell of rotten eggs hit Bill suddenly. He whipped around, bringing the flashlight up. He had backed up against a wall without realizing it. At its base, a pile of yellow powder lay undisturbed. A frozen drip of blood above it caught Bill's attention. Blood had been smeared in a pattern on the wall. Bill stepped back carefully to get a better look. As he made the markings out his blood ran cold as the blood on the wall. He turned, sprinting to the door and out into the warmer air outside.

* * *

*dances happily* I hope you guys enjoyed it!

So, i'll finally follow through on explaining the inspiration for this fic. It always bothered me in various supplemental pre-series stories how instead of "I went to missouri and learned the truth" it was turned into this thing where missouri sought john out. The only specific I can think of is the Comics (the title escapes me...) but it always bothered me. Because everything we see or hear in the show points otherwise. In the episode "Home", Missouri says 'Your father came in for a reading' Not 'I sensed your father's pain and sought him out'.

So I started thinking, how _did_ John end up at Missouri's? After reading the published John Winchester's Journal (which isn't technically cannon, but it's the closest we'll get) I found a clue. It's been a while, but I remember it mentioning that John took Dean to see a psychologist, but he wasn't impressed with the results. But John isn't the kind of man to just give up, especially on his kids. So he kept looking, and if your looking for PSYchologists in the phonebook, it would be very easy to stumble upon PSYchics. In fact, in the before mentioned episode, when Sam and Dean are looking in the phonebook for psychics, the opposite page has Psychologist on it.

The Simple answer is usually the best, and it's a natural flow of events.

Also, I put WAY too much thought into my fanfics.

Follow, favorite, and review!


	10. Chapter 10

Oh, I have a treat for you today! Happy reading!

* * *

 **November 15th, 1983**

Deanna sat quietly coloring on the floor of Missouri's parlor. The conversation between the two was unusual. It reminded John of conversations he'd had with his mother. Of conversations between people who knew each other so well that they didn't really need to speak. Within minutes of meeting Missouri, Deanna sat comfortably on her lap. They stared at each other, expressions the only hint at what was being said. For the first time since the fire, he'd seen the ghost of Deanna's smile. Then Missouri told Deanna to go play so she could talk with almost seemed happy as she did.

"So?" John asked nervously, watching Deanna carefully from the corner of his eye. He didn't have time to finish the question 'how is she?' before Missouri answered.

Missouri smiled at him, and some of the tension left his body. "She's strong, that girl of yours." She looked at Sam, sleeping in John's arms. "They both are."

John nodded slowly, not sure how to take that. He went to repeat the question, but Missouri beat him to it.

"Relax, I'm getting there! And stop cussing at me!"

Relax? How was he supposed to relax after the things she'd told him yesterday—

Sam squirmed in his arms, whining and flailing. He bounced her on his knee, murmuring softly. Sam grabbed a fistfull of shirt and stuck it in her mouth, sucking furiously, content again.

Missouri's expression softened. "Deanna's been through a lot. I'm not sure most kids could handle it. I know it's not much of a comfort, but I think she's handling it the best she can."

John raised an eyebrow at that.

Missouri played with her necklace thoughtfully. She looked over at Deanna, obliviously absorbed in the coloring book. "You've got to understand, things like this…they affect children in ways they don't affect adults."

"What do you mean?"

Missouri sighed, glaring at John slightly for his impatience. "Children are…more _sensitive_ to the unnatural. I don't know why." She answered John's unspoken question. "Maybe because they still believe in it, or maybe they aren't so absorbed by the world around them yet. I don't know how, but she can sense that you're frightened."

John leaned back slightly in surprise.

"Everyone around her is in pain, grieving, worried about her. As they should be," Missouri added gently. "But, it's all too much. She has her own pain to deal with; she doesn't know what to do with everyone else's. Aside from all of that, you were right John. She doesn't _want_ to talk."

So she'll never talk again? Forever stuck in whatever personal, silent hell she'd been in since Mary's death. John's eyes watered at the thought. He pressed forefinger and thumb against his eyes, forcing back tears. Sam whined against his shirt.

"Not necessarily."

John looked at Missouri, trying not to get his hopes up. Sam fell silent again.

Missouri met his gaze steadily, hands clasped in her lap. It reminded him briefly of the psychiatrist, but he didn't hold that against her."I'm certainly no doctor, and you've heard this so many times already, but this may take some time. It will certainly take some patience from you."

John scowled. He was patient with his children. He was whatever he needed to be for them. Missouri raised her hands to placate him.

"I'm just saying, it could be a long time before she feels comfortable talking again. I'd personally recommend that you don't pressure her to talk—not that you have been. Lord, you have a quick temper."

Quick temper? Only compared to some. He kept that temper in check, he had to. Unpleasant memories from his own childhood flared, flashing through his mind before he could stop them. That stopped Missouri cold. Her mouth popped open in shock. John quickly tried to think of something else, but she'd already seen it. Sammy started crying in earnest this time.

A hand covered her mouth, muffling her voice. "I'm so sor—"

"Not. Another. Word." It seemed even psychics didn't know when to leave well enough alone. Tumultuous emotions roiled in his chest, fists clenching along with his teeth. No one was supposed to see that. He'd barely even been able to tell Mary about that.

Missouri looked at him with sad, pitying eyes. John gritted his teeth. He didn't need her pity. He didn't want her pity. Thankfully, she dropped the issue. John pointedly ignored her, soothing Sammy instead. Poor kid was probably hungry. They were quiet for a few moments before Missouri spoke again, looking at Deanna. "She's scared, but she trusts you. She should." Missouri looked sharply at John for his unspoken thought. He shifted uncomfortably, not feeling worthy of that trust. "You're her father. She knows you'd do anything for her. Despite everything in her life changing, one thing hasn't."

That grabbed his curiosity.

Missouri smiled fondly at Deanna as if she'd known her for years. "You're still her knight in shining armor. Her hero. As long as you're around, I think she'll be right as rain, in time."

* * *

 **November 15th, 1983**

John stood outside the shell of what used to be his home. Half the house was gone even though the fire only burned for a few hours. He stared at the open hole in the house that used to be the nursery. Deanna took her first steps in that room. Said her first words in this house.

All of that gone up in flames.

He'd refused to go inside with Missouri. He wasn't ready to face the wreckage that had been his life, his home. He didn't have to wait for her long. Missouri wasn't inside five minutes before she came rushing back out, ashen faced. It reminded John of the Campbell's old house. Rumor had that it was haunted. Before Mary's family moved in, no one could stay inside for more than five minutes. One of the rare times his mother ever yelled at him as a child was when she caught him trying to sneak into the 'haunted' house. After everything Missouri told him about what was out there in the dark, John was grateful he hadn't gone inside. He wondered if his home would be the same way now.

"So?" John asked, falling into step with Missouri as she hurried away from the house.

She shook her head. "Not yet, not here." She looked back fearfully, quickening her step. John opened the passenger door for her before walking around to the driver's side. Taking one last glance of the mangled husk of his home, he sighed and got in the Impala.

Missouri gnawed at her necklace as they drove away. The girls were back at Julie's, probably in bed by now. He didn't want them to see the house like that. It was bad enough they'd seen it while it burned, they didn't need to see what the fire had done. John tapped his fingers on the steering wheel of the Impala, trying to be patient. They were halfway to her house before she spoke.

"I've never felt anything like that before." Missouri whispered, voice hushed, afraid of being heard.

"Like what?" John pressed. So much for patience.

"It—it was _evil_." She actually sounded surprised.

John bit back a retort, knowing she'd hear it anyways.

She glared at him, vigor returning to her tone. "Don't cuss at me! I mean that. I've felt spirits before, angry ones, full of hate. This was nothing like that. This was dark, cold."

"So the house wasn't haunted?"

Missouri shook her head violently. "No. Something came in." A chill jolted up John's spine and he shuddered. The air in the Impala suddenly felt colder. John remembered Deanna's words the night of the fire: Something was trying to get in the house. How could he ignore something like that? He should have listened to her. "There was nothing you could have done John." John's grip on the wheel tightened. "There isn't. This, this _thing_ wasn't just evil, it was powerful."

"What was it?" A need ignited in John's chest. Unbidden, a desire for vengeance, the destruction of this thing that took Mary from him overwhelmed all other thought. Blood roared in his head. He gripped the steering wheel to ground himself, his knuckles turning white.

Missouri shook her head. "I don't know, I'm no hunter—"

"A hunter? What do you mean?" They were nearing Missouri's house.

"It's—I can't explain now, but I have a—" Missouri stopped midsentence, eyes glazed over, mouth hanging open. John glanced over at her.

"Missouri?"

"Pull over."

What?

"Pull over now!" Missouri shouted.

John, trained to follow orders, especially those yelled at him, did as he was told without question. Missouri scrambled out of the car. They were nearly to her house, parked in front of her neighbors. Their lights were on. John followed her, running as she sprinted to their front door.

What remained of the door clung to its hinges. It was cracked, splintered, and torn to shreds. Large slash marks exposed the pale wood beneath the grey paint. Large splinters littered the porch and entryway. Claw marks matching the ones on the doorway carved a trail in the wood floor of the hallway. John's stomach twisted with foreboding.

"Missouri, Missouri, wait!"

Surprisingly she seemed to listen. She froze in her tracks as she reached the end of the entry hall. John realized she hadn't heard him at all. Turned to face the room, she was staring in open-mouthed horror at something. John rushed to her side, then wished he hadn't.

A horribly familiar smell hit him like a freight train.

Blood.

Everywhere, blood and bits of body.

The floor. The walls. The ceiling. All splattered with blood.

Fighting down bile, John grabbed Missouri's arm, to pull her, pull himself away from the bloodbath. His head spun, shoving thoughts of Vietnam and death from his mind. "We should go, you don't need to see this." She already had. There was no protecting her from that. Violence had a way of holding your gaze, your mind. Like a car crash, looking away was hard.

Missouri hadn't heard him. Shaking, she raised her arm to point at the far left wall.

John's blood ran cold. Every thought of horror and revenge vanished into mindless, desperate panic.

There were six words on the wall, written in blood:

 _ **We are coming for the children**_


	11. Chapter 11

**November 15th, 1983.**

John didn't remember getting back in the Impala. He didn't even remember leaving the house. The world tunneled, constricting until he could not breathe.

 ** _We are coming for the children._**

Missouri held on for dear life as he sped through the streets, pedal slammed to the floor. He barely even registered her presence. She screamed at him, telling him to slow down.

 _ **We are coming for the children.**_

No, he would not slow down. His daughters were in danger. The threat could be for no one else. Now they were alone with Julie, unprotected. How could he leave them? He had promised he would never leave them. He had promised Mary he would never leave her. But he had, and now she was dead.

 _ **We are coming for the children.**_

No, no. Not them.

Not his babies. Please god, no.

The Impala took air off a dip in the road, John's teeth rattling as the suspension did little to cushion the impact. He was almost there, if he could just be fast enough, he could save them.

 _ **We are coming for the children.**_

He could see Julie's house at the end of the street. The downstairs lights shone like beacons in the night. He made it, he—

What remained of the door clung to its hinges. Cracked, splintered, and torn to shreds. Large slash marks exposed the pale wood beneath the red paint. Large splinters littered the porch and entryway. Claw marks matching the ones on the doorway carved a trail in the wood floor of the hallway. Bloody prints, nearly as wide around as John, surrounded the deep gouges. John heart went cold as ice.

"John, John wait!"

 _ **We are coming for the children.**_

His children.

No. Please god, no.

He followed the tracks to Julie's living room. Blood stained the white carpet red. Blood. Everywhere, blood and bits of body. The floor. The walls. The ceiling. All splattered with blood.

It was Julie. John knew it was, despite the carnage. He didn't stop. Bloody paw prints lead up the stairs. Large chunks of carpet had torn away from the stairs, exposing the wood underneath. John's head spun, vision tunneling. The tracks lead to their room.

"John wait!"

No. no. He couldn't be too late.

Not his girls.

John nearly took the bedroom door off its hinges. He flipped the lights on without thinking, dreading what he might see.

The tracks lead to the crib. Aside from the tracks, the room was spotless. No blood, no carnage.

No children in the crib.

 ** _We are coming for the children._**

No.

"Sammy?" John cried, voice breaking. "Deanna?" John choked on their names. No, they couldn't be gone, no, please god, no—

"Daddy?"

John looked wildly around the room, trying to find where her voice came from. "Deanna? Sweetheart, where are you?!"

A little hand stuck out from underneath the bed. John threw himself to hands and knees, peering under the bed. Deanna huddled beneath her blanket, Sammy's hair poking out of the bundle beside her. John gripped her arms and pulled her bodily out from under the bed. She winced as the carpet burned. Next came Sam, asleep and blissfully unaware of the danger they'd been in. John held them tight. He was never, ever letting them go again. He wept, tears of sweet relief.

They were alive. Thank god, oh thank god they were alive.

"Oh, thank god!"

It was Missouri. John didn't even look at her. He rocked back and forth, crying silently into Deanna's hair. He kissed Sammy's head. She whimpered in her sleep, rubbing her eyes. John was vaguely aware of Missouri rushing around the room, throwing their things together.

They had to leave.

Not leave, run. They had to run.

The girls were alright, but—

 _ **We are coming for the children.**_

They were still in danger.

John pulled away to look Deanna in the eye. Her green eyes, her mother's eyes, were wide. Frightened. John wondered how much she'd seen, how much she'd heard. The thing had been in the room with them. It had been downstairs.

Julie. Oh god.

John fought back bile. Julie was dead. He couldn't afford to think of that now. He had to get the girls out of the house. Out of Lawrence.

To where?

He'd figure that out later. One step at a time. The only thing that mattered now was getting as far away as possible.

He put a hand on Deanna's shoulder, still holding Sammy with the other. Missouri had the bag with what few belongings had survived the fire. John kept his voice as even and as calm as he could manage. "Deanna, sweetheart, I need you to close your eyes." She nodded, squeezing her eyes shut. "Now cover 'em, like when we play hide n' seek. Can you do that?" Again, Deanna nodded, hands cupping over her eyes. "Good girl. Whatever you do, don't peek until I say so, okay?" One more nod.

John hefted both girls, standing with little difficulty. Though Deanna kept her eyes covered, John kept her back to the carnage downstairs, never positioning her or Sammy where they could see what remained of their mother's best friend. He turned his head away, unable to look. Julie had been his friend too. He'd kill the creature responsible. This, and whatever thing took Mary, would answer to him.

But not tonight.

Missouri didn't speak until both girls were in the car. She'd found a scrap of paper and a pen, scribbling something down. She gave it to John when she finished. "Go to that address. Tell him I sent you. Tell him that I don't know what killed your wife, but that a black dog killed your friend."

John frowned, opening his mouth. To ask questions or to thank her, he didn't know.

Missouri cut him off. "Don't stop for anything. Get there, he'll protect you. I can't do anything more for you."

John understood. "Goodbye Missouri."

The moon was rising as Lawrence faded in the rear-view mirror. Deanna huddled close to Sammy's car seat, trembling. The hairs on the back of John's neck rose and he shivered. He felt something behind them, far in the distance, but there nonetheless. With the same certainty that he'd known something had killed Mary, that something was there when he woke up in a cold sweat at Mike and Katie's, he knew:

Something was following them.

* * *

 **November 21** **st** **, 1983**

Bill ran, nearly tripping on the top step of the psychic's porch. Not bothering to knock, he threw the door open. Ellen stood in the entryway, head whipping around, eyes wide. He didn't waste any time. "We need to find Fletcher."

Ellen put a restraining hand on his shoulder as he tried to move past. "Whoa there! Take it easy. What's wrong?"

"We need to leave as soon as possible."

"Why?" Ellen's voice rose an octave. "What happened?"

Something moved in the corner of his eye and Bill whipped towards it, iron knife at the ready. The woman gave a startled yelp, ducking behind the door-frame before holding her hands out disarmingly. "Whoa, careful! Not a demon!"

Bill lowered his knife but didn't loosen his grip on it. He gestured to the other house with it. "Have you seen what's in there?"

The woman, who could only be Missouri, nodded cautiously. "Wish I hadn't." She shuddered. "I sent the Winchesters to Fletcher after that—"

"That happened when they were still in Lawrence?" Bill interrupted, horrified. They must have gotten lucky, getting away from the thing just in time.

"Yes, the night they left Lawrence. I don't know about luck though. John's poor friend certainly wasn't."

"What are you talking about?" A pit formed in his stomach.

"The other victim, Julie Ross. The Winchesters were staying with her. Poor girl."

Ellen stared at Missouri in horror. "The other attack, they were there?"

Bill was passed that, itching to be on the road, to track Fletcher and the Winchesters down. What was Fletcher thinking, pulling them along into a hunt while something hunted them? No wonder Deanna could barely even look at him. What she must have seen—

Missouri shook her head, looking at Bill. "I don't know how much she saw, but I don't think she saw Julie die."

"That supposed to make me feel better?" Bill snapped. Anger boiled in him. "God! This whole time we've been moseying around Lawrence when we should have just stayed where we were!" His voice rose to a yell.

Ellen looked a little frightened. She kept her hand on his shoulder, but she leaned away. "Bill, are you okay?"

"Okay? Okay? Why the hell would I be okay Ellen?" She shrank back. "We left them! I left them. I thought I was helping, doing what Fletcher asked, but I was a complete dumbass about it! I should've asked John about it at least. I owed him that much, I—"

Missouri finished for him. "Owed him a lot more than just a drink." Bill's shoulders fell. Missouri had seen through all the anger and bravado and straight into the heart of the matter. "You owe him both your lives." Her eyes flickered to Ellen and back to him. "I have Fletcher's number." She said quietly, leaving them in the entryway.

It was quiet for a few moments. Bill put a hand over his eyes, sitting heavily in one of Missouri's armchairs. Ellen's hand didn't leave his shoulder. The silence deafened him.

"Bill?" Ellen spoke quietly. He looked up at her. Still pale, but she frowned at him. "What did she mean, you owe him ' _both_ our lives'?"

Bill knew what Missouri had meant. He looked away. He didn't want Ellen to know. He shook his head. "I…I don't know."

"Bill." Her grip on his shoulder tightened slightly.

He lifted his hand to hers, clutching it tight. She relaxed, letting him take her hand. Turning his head, he planted a quick kiss on it. What would she have done if he'd died two nights ago? Bill wasn't the one keeping her alive, she could do that perfectly well on her own. Ellen was tough, strong. She had to be. Bill knew she could handle herself physically, but she wasn't… _prepared_ to lose someone like that. It frightened Bill to think of what she would have done, had the Kappa succeeded in dragging him to his death. What she would have done if John hadn't shot the horrible thing in time. He'd saved them both.

Missouri walked carefully out of the other room, slip of paper in hand. Bill stood quickly, letting go of Ellen's hand.

The phone rang. Bill drummed his fingers against it impatiently. Come on Fletcher, pick up. Bill was conscious of Ellen and Missouri watching him. He shifted uncomfortably. The seconds ticked by slowly, phone still ringing. He knew Fletcher kept to himself. Most hunters did, but he had to answer the phone every once and awhile, didn't he? He twisted his finger in the loops of the phone cord. The phone was an old one, the kind with a spinning dial. His parents had one just like it when he was a kid. Or at least he thought it was the same. It had been twenty years or so since he'd seen it. He hadn't been that much older than Deanna when his dad died. It was hard, having something evil creep into your life and steal a parent from you. It branded you as different. There was always a window opened to that world after seeing something like that. Maybe the Winchesters still had a chance though. If he could reach them in time. Bill gritted his teeth. If Fletcher didn't pick up soon, he swore to god he'd just hang up and drive.

"Hello?"

All the anger Bill had over Fletcher sending them into this like it was a simple, open and shut case got the better of him. "A little warning might've been nice, Fletcher." Bill was surprised at the venom in his own voice.

"Bill? What happened?" Oh, now he was concerned. He was pretty freaking lucky the demon had been gone. Or maybe he wasn't, it might be closer to Fletcher than it was to them.

Uncharacteristic anger buzzed in his skull."Know what else would've been nice? Knowing the name of your psychic friend!"

"Bill, what are you talking about? What happened?"

"What happened? We spent all day looking for her, that's what happened! And I like knowing I'm hunting a demon before smelling sulfur!"

"Demon?" Fletcher sounded surprised. "I thought it was a black dog!"

That would've been nice to know too.

"Black dogs don't burn down houses Fletcher."

"What are you talking about?"

"The fire that killed Mary Winchester. That ringing any bells?"

"Don't take that tone with me, Bill. John didn't say what killed his wife. I didn't even know her name. He just said Missouri thought a Black Dog was after them."

Bill sighed angrily. That explained a lot. "Fine, I'm sorry. Let me talk to John."

There was a pause on the other end. "Why?"

Bill closed his eyes and shook his head. Had he really heard that right? "Is there any reason I shouldn't?" He fought to keep his temper in check.

Fletcher hesitated. For having two kids there, the background was awfully quiet. Realization hit Bill like a lightning bolt. "They're not there, are they?"

"John left with the kids not long after you did."

Bill covered his face with his free hand. "You're kidding. You were supposed to be protecting them Fletcher!"

"Nothing was after them! There was nothing to protect them from!"

"Except the demon that wrote "We're coming for the children" in blood in the house next to Missouri's! You'd think maybe they needed protecting from _that_!"

Fletcher responded with equal venom. "I'm not a psychic, Bill! How the hell was I supposed to know? John barely spoke to me, I only knew what Missouri told me!"

"She told you she thought something was after them, and you just let them go?"

"What was I supposed to do, lock 'em in the basement? John wanted to leave; I didn't stand in his way."

Bill had enough. "Where'd they go?"

Fletcher sighed. "I don't know."

Bill hung the phone up. He stared at it for a few moments, temper still flaring.

"Mister, don't you dare throw my telephone!" Missouri snatched it up, backing away from Bill quickly.

Bill didn't deny that he'd wanted to. "Where'd they go?" He turned to Missouri.

She shrugged helplessly. "I have no idea." She flinched back as Bill slammed his fists on the little table, swearing. He left without another word to Missouri.

Silence reined in the cab of the truck. Road flew by, miles ticking away. Bill had no idea where he was going, he just had to get there fast. He had to find the Winchesters, somehow.

Ellen watched Bill from the corner of her eyes, rolling something in her hands nervously. He'd scared her, he knew. He kept his eyes on the road. He had no idea where to go, where to start looking. He'd screwed up, big time. There was no fixing this. He pulled over abruptly, the truck jerking to a stop.

"Bill?" Ellen's hand was on his shoulder again.

He could only shake his head, covering his eyes in shame. He'd failed the Winchesters and there was no going back. He abandoned them, like the hunter that left him and his mother to deal with the fallout of his father's death. Given the chance, he wouldn't make the same mistake twice. He could only hope he got that chance.

* * *

Well, there you have it. That's the end.

I'd like to thank you guys for coming along the ride with me! For followers of this story, don't worry! This story might have ended, but that doesn't mean it's over. The next phase of this 'little' series, **Snow and Ashes, is coming soon**! It's written, but is in need of some TLC before I start posting! If you don't want to miss it, hit the follow button! All that does is let you know when I post something, and lets me know you like my writing! I'd like to _ **thank**_ those that already have, as well as favorites and reviews. They seriously keep me going! You have no idea how motivating it is!

Also, less than five hours ago, this chapter was no where near being ready to publish. I worked my **TAIL** off getting this thing presentable. There still might be a few quirks (and i'd appreciate a PM to let me know about any goofs so I can fix 'em), but it's a _whole_ lot better than it was this morning!

Much love and appreciation!

-M


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